Ashes of Victory, page 11
Before him, the service staff had already laid out a spread of pastries, hard-boiled eggs, hash browns, bacon, and other breakfast choices. And yes, full-leaded coffee.
Decaf is for wimps, he thought, pouring himself a cup. No cream or sugar.
“Slept well, Hart?” he asked as Okimoto and his team emerged from the same hallway and deployed around the room.
“Like a baby, sir. Thank you.”
“Where’s the motley crew?”
The DNI stretched an index finger at the window. “Pulling up now.”
Macklin waited until General Chalmers, Admiral Blevins, Defense Secretary Pete Adair, and Secretary of State Brad Austin settled in and grabbed something from the trays. The Pentagon brass looked exhausted. It was obvious they had been up all night tracking the strikes. Adair wore neutral slacks and a black sweater, while Chalmers wore his Air Force Service Dress Uniform consisting of a three-button coat, matching trousers, and a service cap, which the general kept on the table—all in the Shade 1620 known as “Air Force Blue.” Blevins wore the Navy Service Dress Blues with the prescribed white combination cap.
Pointing his reading glasses at his secretary of defense, Macklin said, “So, let’s have it, Pete. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”
Adair, a former Green Beret who loved high-stakes poker and skeet shooting, placed his mug on the coffee table and looked up. “Overall, we had many well-executed, successful strikes. The Air Force as well as Lincoln and Vinson destroyed all of their assigned objectives, but the latter lost a Rhino.”
Macklin frowned at the mention of a downed Super Hornet. “SAM?”
“Equipment malfunction,” said Blevins.
Macklin nodded, for a moment recalling his own ejection. “It happens. The pilot?”
“Rescued,” the admiral replied. “Though I heard it was pretty hairy business. Had to take out a contingent of Iranian troops shooting at the pilot and the CSAR helo, while Rhinos from Vinson provided air cover. She’s back on the ship and should return to full flight status shortly.”
Macklin slowly nodded again, thinking of his recurrent nightmare. It had been harrowing enough for him to get shot down over enemy territory. He could only start to imagine what must have gone through that naval aviator’s head as she waited for the CSAR helo.
“Glad to hear that,” he finally said. “And Guatemala?” he asked, sipping coffee.
Chalmers said, “Those planes won’t be bothering us anymore, sir. One of our Boomerangs from Whiteman took care of that.”
The president nodded. “Great news,” he said evenly before turning to Austin. “When are we speaking to President Duarte?” he asked, referring to the Guatemalan president.
“Right after this meeting, sir.”
“All right. What’s next?”
Chalmers said, “Day two of working through the list of planned strikes, sir. Primarily in Afghanistan, Syria, Iran, and Yemen.” He spent the next few minutes giving his commander in chief a quick rundown. “In all, forty-three additional known terrorist strongholds are to be hit, plus Mr. Prost has requested that we add the military garrison at Zahedan International Airport in Iran to the list for good measure.”
Macklin turned to his DNI. “I thought we were limiting the strikes to known terrorist enclaves.”
Prost nodded in acknowledgment. “That was our intention, but when they went after our pilot and the CSAR helo, it seemed appropriate that we respond. There are eighteen MiG-29s and twelve Mirage F1s on that base. The cost of harboring terrorists . . .”
“Well, when you put it that way,” Macklin said, pointing the glasses at Blevins. “What’s the word on our fleet?”
“We’re keeping Lincoln and Vinson in the Mediterranean and the Arabian Sea respectively. Stennis is leaving Singapore as we speak and will head out to cover the South China Sea, while we stretch out Roosevelt’s deployment in the Sea of Japan another month until Reagan replaces it out of San Diego. Although there’s a focus on the Gulf, we still need a strong presence in North Korea, and now the strait.”
“The strait?” Macklin said, frowning. “That’s . . . new. What’s going on?”
Blevins said, “Our satellites are picking up increased troop deployments along the coast, from Fuzhou to Guangzhou.” He produced a tablet computer and passed it to Macklin.
Balancing his glasses on the tip of his nose, he browsed through the satellite images for a minute or so. Then, looking at Prost over the glasses, asked, “What’s Xi up to? I just spoke to the man, and all was well.”
“Well, our intel says otherwise. So, I recommend we park Stennis there for a couple of weeks.”
Macklin stared at the images again. Sighing, he said, “Fine.”
He returned the tablet to Blevins, who continued for another few minutes, giving him a rundown of naval activities around the world. Then Chalmers updated him on the strikes by the Air Force.
The president finished his first cup of the day and as he stood to get a second one, he pointed his glasses at the Pentagon trio. “I’m assuming we already have proper defenses on our carriers while at port? And I mean all of them, even the ones under construction or repair or at sea trials?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Chalmers. “Six-man crews with shoulder-launched missiles in rotating shifts, twenty-four seven, each led by an officer empowered to make calls on the spot. We won’t get hit like that again, sir. Ever.”
“Good,” he said. He couldn’t afford to lose another carrier.
— 10 —
USS JOHN C. STENNIS (CVN 74), CHANGI NAVAL BASE, SINGAPORE
CAPTAIN MARCUS MADISON, COMMANDING officer of the Nimitz-class carrier, stared at the moon while standing on “vulture’s row,” the viewing gallery on the carrier’s island that provided a clear line of sight over flight-deck ops and the ship’s surroundings.
Strategically located at the mouth of the Malacca Strait, Singapore’s naval base offered one of the few deep-draft piers in the Pacific Ocean big enough to berth a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier. Potential adversaries of the United States considered Changi a de facto US naval base.
Stennis, along with her escorts and Carrier Air Wing 9 (CVW-9), were departing under the cover of darkness.
Madison frowned. The news on Truman had stunned the American military community and had created a heightened level of concern among its personnel for their families back home.
Stennis was escorted by five surface ships, including the Ticonderoga-class cruisers USS Mobile Bay (CG 53) and USS Antietam (CG 54), and beneath the surface, USS North Dakota (SSN 784), a Virginia-class submarine. Together, they formed the John C. Stennis Carrier Strike Group with orders to steam directly to the Taiwan Strait, roughly 1,500 miles away. CVW-9 had eight squadrons of various aircraft, including the F/A-18E Super Hornet and the brand-new F-35C Lightning stealth multi-role fighter. In addition, Stennis hauled a contingent of nine operators from SEAL Team 2 along with their gear.
When the carrier finally moved away from the pier, a Singaporean anti-submarine patrol vessel and a missile corvette accompanied it to the edge of the harbor. Stars filled the sky above.
A deep voice announced flight quarters. It was time to form a protective layer over the carrier strike group. Minutes later, a Seahawk plane-guard rescue helicopter settled into position on the port side of the island, while an SH-60F anti-submarine warfare (ASW) helicopter lifted off the flight deck and made a sweep around the carrier.
The flight-deck personnel were busy preparing to launch Super Hornets from the Strike Fighter Squadron VFA-14 “Tophatters” for CAP duty. The various escort ships, some still rendezvousing with Stennis, were taking up station around it. And just below the surface, North Dakota maneuvered into position to flank the carrier on starboard.
Despite the circumstances, Madison thought it was a beautiful night to head out to sea.
SUBMARINE K-43, OUTSIDE CHANGI NAVAL BASE, SINGAPORE
ORIGINALLY BUILT FOR A South American republic, K-43, one of the new generation of German Type 212A–class attack submarines, had secretly changed hands three times. First to a drug cartel interested in using it to move its product from Central America to points north, and then to an arms dealer able to provide the cartel with something it wanted more than a sub: M47 Dragon shoulder-fired anti-tank weapons. Then to Omar Al Saud for two hundred million euros.
The revolutionary air-independent, 187-foot Siemens-Permasyn-powered submarine could remain submerged and totally quiet for up to three weeks. High-grade austenitic stainless steel made the pressure hull virtually nonmagnetic.
Hundreds of special items aboard the boat were made as nonmagnetic as possible. Every detail had been considered in making the submarine the quietest hunter-killer in the ocean.
Anti-submarine aircraft and helicopters using infrared, acoustic, dipping sonar, sonobuoys, or magnetic-detection devices would have a difficult time sensing the latest in ultra-quiet diesel boats. Even more true if the Type 212A rested on the bottom of a shallow sea, quietly, as it did tonight.
With a submerged range of more than three thousand nautical miles, the 212A gave developing countries a first world military capability on a third world budget. An integrated command control, navigation, and weapons system allowed automated operations. With a submerged speed of twenty knots, the boat was propelled by one finely machined seven-bladed screw.
The submarine had been equipped with six forward torpedo tubes, operated with a noiseless water-ram hydraulic expulsion system, and carried a maximum load of a dozen torpedoes. The introduction of the submarine in mid-2003 had forced the world’s naval experts to reconsider the threat posed by this new breed of silent boats, often referred to as “stealth” submarines.
In November 2013, a Type 212A Submarine, U-32 from the Deutsche Marine, on the way to participate in exercises with the US Navy, got through all of the defenses of a US Navy strike group completely unseen, and even shot green simulation torpedoes at the carrier. The daring feat opened eyes at the highest levels of the US government.
K-43’s skipper, Captain Yuri Sergeyev, formerly of the Soviet Navy, stood in the crimson twilight of the control room thinking about that German captain. He wondered if the captain had been proud . . . or if he’d realized that he’d just proven the threat the Type 212A presented.
The Type 212A submarine normally operated with a crew of twenty-four, but Sergeyev had only fourteen, all veterans multi-rated in various duties and responsibilities. Nine of the men, including himself, could handle five or more billets. Eleven of the men had previously served under Sergeyev.
Gone were the days of the politically correct titles of comrade captain or comrade political officer. Only Sergeyev had a formal rank: captain. The rest of the men were considered an integral team and were referred to by name rather than rank.
Along with the Russian naval fleet, Sergeyev had fallen on hard times. With political and economic problems plaguing the Russian Federation, their submarines had been deteriorating at an alarming rate. Few were able to deploy due to a lack of trained crews and funds for fuel and provisions. Preventive maintenance on the boats had waned to nonexistent. Many subs had been abandoned when their systems had failed. Some of them had been scuttled to defer the operating funds to seaworthy vessels.
Sergeyev, once a rising star in the Soviet Navy, had become disillusioned by the corruption and dereliction he saw in the new Russian Navy and had finally given up. Eventually, he had found work on fishing boats from Canada to South America and had moved his family to a small apartment in Buenos Aires, Argentina. When he first had heard about the submarine position from a former shipmate, he had thought it was a prank. However, when the Moscow Times newspaper advertisement had arrived from a close friend in Novgorod, Sergeyev had become cautiously excited.
A European company had been searching for an experienced captain for a commercial submarine operation. Sergeyev had sent a résumé to a post office box in Geneva and, nine days later, had flown to Munich, Germany, and checked into the Hotel Bayerischer Hof, where he’d met face-to-face with Omar Al Saud.
Soon after, he had reported to a remote and private facility nineteen miles north of Coquimbo, Chile, for training in the Type 212A. Aside from picking a crew, Sergeyev’s first order of business had been the installation of a pair of ZOKA Aselsan acoustic torpedo countermeasure decoy modules. The Turkish-made units had been built into the hull on the aft starboard and port sides. No way would he take on the entire United States Pacific Fleet without some measure of evasive protection.
His crew grew restless, Sergeyev knew. They had been waiting more than a week for the American carrier to get under way, but, until it did, his orders were brutally clear: not a sound.
His eyes drifted from the quiet activity in the control room to the sonar station before he decided to head back to his stateroom. If there was one thing the veteran submariner had learned after a lifetime of underwater deployments, it was to appreciate the calm before the storm.
LEONOD POPOV, A FORMER warrant officer in the Soviet Navy and K-43’s sonar-watch supervisor, yawned as he walked to the sonar station at the far end of the control room. He had not slept well for the past six nights. Like most of the crew, Popov had never stalked a ship with the intention of sinking it, much less one of the jewels of the US Navy.
Settling behind his console, he rubbed his eyes and scratched his shaved head. Pulling on a set of earphones, he leaned back, hands on his lap, fingers crossed, eyes closed, listening.
Popov’s head bobbed as he fought his exhaustion. He dozed off for a moment, but he startled awake when a familiar sound filled his earphones. A solid contact and very close.
The escort ship’s propellers were mixed, including that of a Virginia-class submarine running alongside the carrier’s starboard. But the cavitation from Stennis was obvious, deep and powerful.
Popov sat up, waved over another sailor, and told him to monitor the sonar equipment while he went to advise the skipper.
Dropping one level below the control room, he found Captain Sergeyev lying on the bunk in his cramped quarters reading one of his wine magazines. It was no secret that the captain had purchased a small plot of land north of Coquimbo that he intended to turn into a vineyard, hoping to join the thriving Chilean wine industry.
Popov knocked on the bulkhead adjacent to the curtain that hung in the doorway to the stateroom.
“Enter,” Sergeyev said firmly. A stocky man with a full head of grayish hair and a short beard that was nearly white, his appearance contrasted sharply with Popov’s. His blue eyes, as cold as a Russian winter, slowly drifted from the journal to meet his officer’s excited gaze.
“Cap’n, we have a positive sonar contact on the boat. The American carrier and her escorts are leaving port.”
“About time.” Sergeyev tossed the magazine, swung his legs over the side of his bunk, and sat up. “Have the crew man their battle stations. But Leonod . . . not a sound. Complete silence, da?”
“Battle stations and quietly. Aye, Cap’n.”
Popov headed back up and whispered the order to the crew.
A FEW MINUTES LATER, Sergeyev stepped into the control room and casually inspected the array of LCD panels, gauges, and indicator lights.
“Sonar, Conn,” he said in an even voice. “Range and bearing?”
Sergeyev had long adopted the tranquil, easygoing demeanor of his first commanding officer and mentor, Captain Vasili Arkhipov, the man credited by historians for casting the single vote that had prevented World War III during the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1963. As second in command aboard the Foxtrot-class submarine B-59, Arkhipov had calmly voted against launching a nuclear-tipped torpedo against American navy vessels, which would have likely caused a major global thermonuclear response.
“Six thousand three hundred feet,” Popov whispered from his station. “Bearing two-six-three. A submerged Virginia-class sub is running alongside the carrier’s starboard at one hundred feet.”
“Come to periscope depth,” the skipper ordered Anatoli Zhdanov, his designated executive officer while at battle stations. The former Soviet Navy lieutenant, who had served under Sergeyev during his last two deployments, had two degrees in engineering. Like his captain, the man had a knack for remaining calm under pressure.
“Periscope depth,” Zhdanov replied in a confident voice.
“Sonar, Conn,” Sergeyev said. “Give me range and bearing every thirty seconds.”
“Range and bearing every thirty seconds, aye,” Popov confirmed. Sergeyev heard his nervousness in his voice.
Sergeyev knew his attack procedures were unorthodox, but he had to be innovative in the confined area. His dangerous location had been necessary to take the Americans by complete surprise. The Type 212A would be firing six DM2A3 SeaHake heavyweight torpedoes at very close range. The 533 mm weapon featured an advanced, and extremely quiet, electrical propulsion system and packed a warhead of 260 kg of PBX, a polymer-bonded explosive very insensitive to accidental detonations.
Popov relayed the bearing as Sergeyev prepared to raise the camouflaged periscope, an action that could make the submarine vulnerable to attack, but the skipper needed visual identification of his target. Working for a man like Omar Al Saud, the captain could ill afford to make a stupid mistake. Calmly he waited until the boat stabilized at a depth of forty feet.
“Up scope,” he said quietly.
“Up scope, aye,” Anatoli Zhdanov replied.
The lubricated tube silently rose from its resting place. The captain reached for the two handles and swung the periscope to match the bearing to the carrier. He immediately recognized the flattop silhouette against the glow of the coastal lights.
“Perfect.” He felt the familiar rush. “Down scope,”
Zhdanov nodded. “Down scope, aye.”
The periscope had been visible for less than seven seconds and at night, minimizing the risk of exposure.
